Winter Tales, The Five Senses
by ForzaDelDestino
Summary: A series of short fics about the five senses, through experiences and feelings of various characters: Arthur, Gwen, Morgana, Gaius, Merlin, Uther, the Great Dragon, Gwaine, Sir Leon. Friendship, humor, slash, angst, fluff.
1. Taste: Strawberries

******CHAPTER ONE**

******Taste: Strawberries (Arthur)**

_Why do strawberries remind the crown prince of his manservant?_

As the winter weather was still icy cold, and the heavy snowfall made hunting difficult, not to mention dangerous, the court at Camelot found itself living off the storesof food that had been bundled into larders, cellars, and stillrooms in case of just such an emergency. Fortunately for the kitchen staff, enough venison and boar had been provided by the crown prince's autumn hunting excursions that the nobility and their servants were in little danger of going hungry. The grain cellars were packed full, to the extent that generous rations of wheat and barley were available to the people of the lower town, and summer berrying expeditions had provided large stores of wild berries from the nearby woodlands. Although cultivated strawberries were raised in the castle's kitchen garden, and in the quiet cloistered garden frequented by Camelot's noblewomen, Prince Arthur preferred the smaller, sweeter wild strawberries that could only be found growing in profusion in the forest during the summer months.

Apples from the orchard were stored in barrels of bran, to keep them fresh, but berries were usually dried for winter use. A favorite treat of the Camelot courtiers was berry tart, made with cream (when the cows were obliging enough to produce some) and dried strawberries. The crown prince was munching on one of these as he stood at his window, looking out over the heavy drifts of snow. He could see Merlin, his young manservant, and Guinevere, Morgana's maidservant, hurling snowballs at each other and laughing like children. They had set their baskets of food from the grain cellars on a snowbank, and were scooping up handfulls of snow with the glee of youngsters just released from hours of study with a strict schoolmaster. Old Gaius, the court physician, and the Lady Morgana watched from the sidelines. Arthur could see Gaius' shoulders quivering as he chuckled, shaking his head at the silliness of youth, and even Morgana, normally cool and aloof when in public, was smiling.

Arthur smiled, but it wasn't at the sight of the young people frolicking below. The strawberry tart was melting in his mouth, reminding him of the times he had dispensed with dignity long enough to join some of the royal household on their summer berrying expeditions into the forest. Uther never attended these outings, considering them beneath his notice, but Morgana often went, and several of the knights and ladies. Gwen accompanied Morgana, of course, and whenever Arthur joined them Merlin would naturally be in attendance. The little band of merrymakers would find a stand of berry bushes--preferably within a sunny clearing--and gather fruit to their hearts' content, filling basket after basket as they emptied bottle after bottle of wine.

"_Mer_lin, why is it that your basket is half empty when everyone else's is full?" Arthur would say in exasperation, eyeing his servant's berry stained lips with a raised eyebrow and folded arms.

On other occasions, he would venture into the forest alone, that is alone except for Merlin, and the two would follow some narrow, barely discernible path into a tangle of shrubs and arching vines. They could pick other berries from brambly shrubs and tall stems, but the wild strawberries grew close to the ground, sometimes hidden beneath the leaves of other plants. Much smaller and more delicate than the cultivated variety, their flavor was richer, more intense, the true essence of summer. Arthur's most vivid memories of those days all involved the same thing: falling backward through thorny bushes onto some grassy hillside, the taste of strawberries in his mouth and his arms full of Merlin. A kind of frantic, passionate haste. And then afterwards, walking back to the castle, grumbling and pretending to be cross because of the lateness of the afternoon and the bramble scratches on his arms, but keenly aware of Merlin walking a proper two paces behind him, lips swollen, shining eyes downcast, absently humming a tune from some popular minstrel's ditty or troubadour's song. And keenly aware of the happiness that filled him almost to bursting as he turned around and snapped in his most authoritative tone of voice:

"Hurry up then, _Mer_lin, we haven't got all day!"

* * *

Next chapter--**Smell: Spices (Gwen)**


	2. Smell: Spices

******CHAPTER TWO**

******Smell: Spices (Gwen)**

_The scents of cinnamon, ginger, and pepper make Guinevere think of the men in her life._

Camelot has a legion of cooks, to provide food for the household of Uther Pendragon. Apart from the royal family and the upper echelon of the nobility, there is a host of people to feed. Uther's vassals, including his knights, and an assortment of barons and their ladies. Visiting gentry. The numerous household servants. Gwen is one of these and although she is maidservant to the Lady Morgana and not obligated to work in the kitchens, she is willing to help the kitchen staff at feast times, or when visitors are numerous and meals more elaborate.

Everyone says that Gwen has magic in her fingers when it comes to baking and seasoning. Morgana claims that she is better than Uther's head cook. Even Merlin teases her about it. ("If Uther finds out you have magical abilities he'll have you executed," he jokes, before remembering what happened to her father, turning beet-red with embarrassment, and apologizing profusely. Gwen simply laughs and throws vegetable peelings at him.) Gaius supplies her with rosewater and other rare ingredients to use in her dishes, pats her on the shoulder, and asks her to make his favorite pudding of preserved figs and almond milk.

Alone at one of the kitchen's worktables Gwen sorts the various spices she likes to use, putting them into linen bags fastened with drawstrings to keep them fresh, or pottery jars for the powdered barks like cinnamon. Their fragrance makes her think of distant lands; so many, like cinnamon, are imported at great cost, and only a wealthy household or a king's court, can afford them. Pepper, for example, is rare and therefore used sparingly. Gwen doesn't know where it comes from, but it must be from far away. Could Lancelot have traveled to those far-off places? Is he now in a kingdom where people speak a different language, wear flowing robes and turbans, where the climate is hot and the hills are of sand, not grass and earth? Or has he gone north, to a country of vast tundras, where the nobility wear fur-lined hats and drink a strong liquor made from grain?

Has some foreign maiden become entranced by his flashing dark eyes, his waving dark hair, his lithe but muscular physique? Has he forgotten the pretty maidservant in Camelot, the girl he promised to love forever?

Gwen mixes powdered cinnamon into a small glass jar of honey and watches as candle-shine makes the contents look like molten gold. In a certain light, Arthur's hair takes on a similar color. Golden hair, golden crown, the Pendragon crest sewn onto the front of his tunic in gold thread. How she has admired him, even loved him with an odd kind of skeptical love; but could anything possibly come of this? Although they live in close proximity, he is even farther away from her than Lancelot (for whom her feelings are more dangerously passionate). For he will be a king, and she is...well, she is little more than an ordinary servant.

Merlin comes in to fetch the crown prince's evening drink of spiced wine, and Gwen can't help but smile as she prays that he doesn't spill it this time. The aroma of cloves in the spiced wine drowns out, for a moment, the distinctive scent that she has caught on Merlin. A scent of Gaius' workroom--the two of them must have been crushing juniper berries, she can detect their sharp, clean fragrance, along with the usual hint of woodsmoke. Then her smile becomes a sigh, for she knows that this scent of juniper and woodsmoke will be discernible on Arthur's pillow tomorrow morning before Merlin opens the window to air out the prince's bedchamber.

* * *

next chapter--**Sight: Jewels (Morgana)**


	3. Sight: Jewels

******CHAPTER THREE**

******Sight: Jewels (Morgana)**

_Like many a young woman, Morgana loved jewelry. But this time it didn't love her._

The Lady Morgana was no more or less vain than most young women of her age. Like many beautiful girls she occasionally flaunted her good looks in front of the young men of Camelot (not that they were likely to do anything about it), and she did enjoy standing in front of her mirror to admire the fit of her latest gown, or the gleam of a new pair of earrings against the midnight black of her hair.

But now it had been snowing for days; the wind was blowing fiercely, and Morgana had a cold.

From morning to night she suffered with headaches, chills, and congestion. After nearly a week of boring bedrest, runny mustard plasters, tedious hot gruel for supper, and an assortment of unbelievably nasty-tasting elixirs from Gaius, she was beginning to feel better. The chills subsided. The headaches were less frequent. Finally the congestion disappeared..only to be replaced with constant and very loud sneezing.

When Gwen came running up to her room to tell her that a traveling merchant had arrived at court with a selection of rare gems and ornaments, Morgana brightened up considerably and said, "Please, Gwen, tell him to--_atchoo_!--come in."

The merchant, an obsequious elderly fellow, was ushered into Morgana's chamber by Gwen, with Merlin also in attendance (since Arthur was meeting privately with the king, trying to decide how to handle a visiting knight eager to defect from the kingdom of Mercia).

The merchant must have been doing good business, for his cloak bore an ermine collar (which, as a commoner, he wasn't really supposed to wear), and his steel grey beard was neatly barbered. He set out an array of necklaces, bracelets, brooches and rings whilst Morgana brought out her own jewelry box to compare his treasures with her own. The sight of the shimmering, colorful gems was already beginning to make her feel more cheerful than she had been in days.

"Oh, Gwen--_atchoo_!--look at these!" she exclaimed at the sight of a particularly fine strand of large and luminous white pearls.

"Yes, my lady," the merchant said proudly, "From the Indies. Pearls beyond price."

Morgana and Gwen oooed and aaaahed, but Merlin simply rolled his eyes.

"_Atchoo_! And these?" Morgana asked, fishing for her handkerchief and pointing at a pair of earrings set with blue stones. "I've never seen anything so beautiful."

"Sapphires from the east, my lady!" crooned the merchant as Gwen went to the clothes chest to find Morgana another handkerchief.

"Oooooh, look at this! What's--_sniffle_--this?" Morgana sighed, pointing at a strangely carved oval gem of a rich blue color, suspended from a fine gold chain.

"A scarab, my lady," replied the merchant smugly. "An ancient stone from Egypt. See, how it's been carved to look like a beetle?"

Morgana looked, and indeed the blue stone, nearly the size of a pigeon's egg, resembled an ovoid insect with folded wings.

"I shall--_atchoooo_!--try it on," she said imperiously, reaching for the chain. Once it had been clasped around her neck, she stood before her mirror to admire the scarab resting on her ivory skin, just above the curve of her bosom. She smiled with pleasure. "Gwen, you must come look at this."

Then it happened. As Morgana stared into the mirror, her headache returned, and she could feel an enormous sneeze building up as though in response. She took a deep, involuntary breath, squeezed her eyes shut, and waved her handkerchief ineffectually in front of her nose as air suddenly exploded outward in a violent "_**ATCHOO**_!"

As her breath blew outward, Morgana could sense, behind her closed eyelids, that the pupils of her eyes were suddenly glowing gold and she felt a sudden surge of power. ("Oh _no_!" she thought, "Not again!")Startled by Morgana's thunderous sneeze--really, how could such a fearsome sound come from such a refined and elegant lady--the merchant stepped back, stumbled over a footstool, and toppled backwards onto the floor, where he lay dazed and semi-conscious. Not realizing what had happened, Gwen rushed to his aid. Morgana's eyes popped open and as she glanced at the mirror she felt something like the pitter patter of tiny feet in the hollow of her throat. She looked again...and shrieked.

The scarab beetle had come to vivid life and was running along the length of her collarbones, fragile legs scurrying and opaque wings folding and unfolding.

"Oh oh oh! Get off me! Get it off!" gasped the Lady Morgana, shaking her handkerchief at the scarab, trying to dislodge it without touching it.

Gwen (who had no idea that a gemstone had come alive) took one look and shrieked just as loudly as her mistress before covering her mouth with her hands. Merlin (who could guess what had occurred) gave a start and his blue eyes went wide with astonishment.

"Get OFF!" screamed Morgana frantically. Merlin hesitantly reached for the scarab, which had scuttled halfway up Morgana's neck, but it was quick and dodged his grasping fingers.

"Off!" shouted Morgana in a panic, slapping at the beetle in her agitation. The scarab slipped, legs scrambling, and toppled into the neckline of her gown, where it promptly disappeared in the valley of her milky-white cleavage.

"Oh, oooh, get it out!" Morgana shrieked. Merlin turned bright red and put both hands behind his back.

"Take it OUT!" bellowed Morgana and Merlin backed away.

"Oh, oh, OH! MERLIN!"

"If there are any guards outside, can you imagine what they're _thinking_...?" he stammered pleadingly.

"Oh, it feels so strange...Merlin, take it OUT!"

"Try jumping," he whispered. In desperation, Morgana began to jump up and down, each hop punctuated by a very loud "OH!" Merlin turned his face away from her and let his own eyes shimmer gold. The scarab popped upwards out of Morgana's gown, flew across the room, struck the wall, and fell. Merlin caught it.

"Oh yes, yes, that's better, yes, thank you, Merlin, thank you, THANK YOU!" Morgana babbled in relief. Merlin sighed, realizing that every smutty-minded guard within hearing distance must have his ear glued to the door by now.

The merchant, having come to his senses, sat up and stared at the gasping noblewoman and the red-faced servant boy in utter confusion.

"Wha...what happened?" he quavered.

Merlin walked quietly to the table where the merchant's wares were displayed. Looking downward he whispered a few words, and placed the scarab--a jewel once more--amongst the other gemstones.

"Oh Morgana, are you alright?" Gwen murmured, putting a hand on the arm of her quivering mistress. "Where in heaven's name did that enormous insect come from?"

"Oh, I never...that was...I never...that was HUGE!" Morgana burst out.

"I'll fetch some wine," Gwen said calmingly. She went to the door, opened it, and jumped back as the armed guards who had been leaning against the other side tumbled into the room in a heap.

"What on earth...?" Gwen snapped as the guards leaped to their feet shamefacedly, trying to look as if they had been doing their duty all along.

"We heard the Lady Morgana crying out," one began rather lamely, peering around the room until he spied a trembling Morgana and a now pale, obviously embarrassed Merlin.

"The Lady Mogana was startled by an insect," Gwen said sharply as she started down the hall, an empty flagon in her hand. "Honestly, there is no excuse for that sort of eavesdropping, gentlemen!"

The guards exchanged glances, and one raised his eyebrows meaningfully.

Merlin felt it was high time that he left.

"If you'll excuse me, Morgana," he said as courteously and as loudly as he could whilst backing towards the door, "I'll just see if Gwen needs any h-help with the wine."

As he slipped past the guards, they eyed him with curiosity and obvious surprise.

"Oh...that was HUGE!" one of them mimicked in a whisper, and two others sniggered madly.

The oldest of the guards nudged the young manservant in the ribs as he edged past. "I didn't know you had it in you, Merlin," he muttered with what a horrified Merlin recognized as respect. "I'd never have thought a scrawny lad like you would be up to the task."


	4. Hearing, I: Footsteps

******CHAPTER FOUR**

******Hearing, Part I: Footsteps (Gaius)**

_The old physician has heard a great deal in his lifetime. But the past year or so has been rather remarkable._

'Oi! Merlin, watch your--"

There was a resounding crash, and the glass vials Merlin had been carrying flew upwards as he himself went down in a tangle of long limbs on the floor. As usual, the crown prince's manservant had not been paying a great deal of attention to his surroundings, and had tripped over Gaius' baskets of herbs as a result. Merlin groaned and winced as he sat up, but Gaius' eyes were focused on the vials, which were bobbing and floating in the air at about waist level, having never made it to the floor at all.

"At least I saved them for you," Merlin said breathlessly as he got to his feet. "Ow," he added, rubbing at a bruised elbow.

"You never cease to amaze me," Gaius replied drily as he dusted Merlin off with his dish towel. "Lucky for us no one was here to see it."

Merlin's wide grin was infectious, but Gaius bit his tongue to prevent himself from returning it. "Now off you go and get ready for work, you know Arthur's expecting you to attend him on the practice field."

He listened as Merlin ran up the stairs to his bedroom door, his steps light and rapid, like those of a deer.

Gaius was old, but his hearing was still acute, and he had lived at Camelot for so long that he could recognize the footstep of almost every important person at court. He knew Uther's heavy, steady tread, just as he could identify Arthur's lithe and purposeful stride. Morgana had a sharp, precise step that radiated aristocratic confidence--although she herself seemed anything but self-confident lately. There was Gwen's soft patter, well known to Gaius, and he could even single out a few of Arthur's knights. The springy step of Sir Leon, for example, and the tentative shuffling of shy Sir Gaheris, the very young knight who gazed at Arthur with worshipful eyes.

In his position as court physician Gaius had heard a great many things, some of which he would rather not have known about. The true story of Arthur's birth, for example. Uther's words of hate when it came to anything to do with magic. Whispers about Morgana's nightmares. Well, there were just some things he had to turn a blind eye...and a deaf ear...to.

Even in his own chambers Gaius had heard words and sounds that caused him concern. Morgana's pleas for help and understanding. Gwen's admissions of confusion and loneliness. One night, when he went up to Merlin's room to retrieve a book of medicine, he had found his young ward fast asleep and had bent to cover him with a blanket. When the boy murmured "Arthur!" in his sleep, in a voice of stifled yearning, he had returned to his own chamber with worry and a kind of paternal apprehension swirling in his brain. Later developments indicated to him that there was little reason to be apprehensive, that the prince returned the servant's feeling with the same ardor, if not more, but the faint sound of their encounters behind closed doors always made him look anxiously about, in the hope that no one else knew a line had been crossed in their relationship.

There was another crash from Merlin's little room and it was Gaius' turn to wince. A moment later, he heard the young man galloping down the stairs, and saw him grab his brown jacket as he headed for the door.

"Merlin," he sighed with exasperation, bringing him to a halt. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

"Erm...?"

Gaius held out the red neckscarf and repressed a smile when Merlin's hand went to his throat and his eyes went automatically to the dusty old mirror leaning against the wall.

"No, you don't really _need_ it this time," he said sternly, trying his best to sound fatherly and disapproving, but without complete success.

Merlin flushed and turned his eyes away from the mirror, where he had been examining his neck for marks. Then he walked meekly over to Gaius and took the faded red cloth from his hand.

"You realize, of course, that you're going to be late, Merlin."

Such absent-mindedness! Perhaps he should have made the boy clean out the leech tank again.

"I'm not late," Merlin shouted, before glancing at the hourglass, and then through the window at the sun, and realizing that (of course) Gaius was right.

"I'll be back for supper, Gaius...I promise," he mumbled apologetically like an obedient schoolboy.

Gaius listened as Merlin tore down the stairs and heard the slam of the door below. Then he went to the window overlooking the courtyard and watched as his unruly charge headed for the gate, only to be joined by an armored figure with fair hair and a gleaming helmet tucked in the crook of his elbow. Arthur's arm shot out and his hand thumped Merlin's shoulder in a comradely way that no bystander would have found unusual, and Gaius could hear Merlin's laugh as they passed under the portcullis.

The physician left the window and returned to his work table, sighing as he fished about in the jumble of herbs and scraps of paper for his eyeglasses.

It wasn't easy being a father...even if only a surrogate one.

* * *

**There will be three chapters devoted to "Hearing."  
Next is "Hearing, Part II" with a character you may not be expecting.**


	5. Hearing, II: Telepathy

******CHAPTER FIVE**

******Hearing, Part II: Telepathy (The Great Dragon)**

_I can hear your thoughts, young warlock. But it's a bloody good thing you can't hear mine._

There were times when the dragon Kilgharrah realized that telepathic ability was not all it was cracked up to be, really.

In Camelot, it was only with young Merlin that he was able to communicate in this way. (Honestly, that boy could be irritating at times, with his insistance on fair play and hatred of bloodshed.) The lad took after his father, that was for certain. The Great Dragon had long since forgiven the older Dragonlord for his part in his lengthy captivity. It had all been Uther's fault, anyway, and Merlin's dad had been misled. Narrowminded, fanatical, _stupid _bloody Uther!

Even though Merlin was the only person to whom he could "speak" telepathically, that didn't mean that he hadn't been able to _hear_ conversations taking place in Camelot during his imprisonment. Listening in on some of these had been the only way of passing the time in his gloomy, stalagtite-hung prison. The only means of having a laugh, even if he couldn't share it. And truly, he had heard some things that would have made his hair stand on end, if he had any.

In fact, if only he could dictate his uncensored memoirs to Geoffrey of Monmouth, and then get the old fellow to publish them, he'd be the wealthiest dragon in Albion.

Oh wait, he was the only dragon in Albion now, wasn't he. Stupid bloody Uther!

_Merlin: "How long have you been training to be a prat...my lord?"_

Hehe. It surely did the young Pendragon brat good to hear that sort of thing once in a while.

_Arthur: "...how many nights did you share a bed with the troll?_

_Uther: "Obviously I was under its spell!"_

That had given him such a belly laugh. And he had coughed so hard afterwards, he had sent scales flying all over the cave.

_Gwen: "You're not going to die, Arthur...You are going to live to be the man I've seen inside you...I can see a king that the people will love and be proud to call their sovereign."_

Yeah, well. Anything had to be better than bloody Uther.

Then again, he had overheard a few conversations...well, noises really...that he could have done without.

Most of these seemed to emanate from the crown prince's bedchamber.

As Merlin's "kin," Kilgharrah took a certain amount of interest in the boy's progress as a servitor in the royal household. The fact that the spindly, blue-eyed youth had become indispensable in more ways than one to the once and future king was (he had to admit) a matter of pride to him, although he would never say as much to Merlin. He found the human passion for grappling about in beds rather peculiar; after all, it was so much easier just to lay an egg! (He couldn't do that, of course, only female dragons could.) But why did they have to make so much bloody noise? It had disrupted his sleep on more than one occasion.

Ironically, he could recall the time when he had said, of the two young men, _"How small they are for such a great destiny!"_

If he was reading Merlin's...they weren't exactly words...correctly, there wasn't anything small about Arthur Pendragon.

The Great Dragon made a concerted effort not to listen in on those private moments. He had no desire to be called a perv or a voyeur.

So when the young warlock finally released him, he was faintly relieved that he would not have to keep hearing the muffled moans and groans and sighs and, uh, other sounds coming from Arthur's chamber.

On the other hand, he would have paid a king's ransom to listen to a replay of those nights Uther spent with the troll!

* * *

**Coming next. Hearing, Part III: Earth, Wind, and Fire (Merlin)**


	6. Hearing III: Earth, Wind, and Fire

******CHAPTER SIX**

******Hearing, Part III: Earth, Wind, and Fire (Merlin)**

_People assume that sorcerers can hear things others can't, that the earth, wind, and fire can tell them things no one else understands. But that's not quite the case._

People tease Merlin about his ears.

There's the old joke about being able to hear the grass grow. In Merlin's case, his friends in Ealdor say he could probably hear the grass growing overseas. They take him hunting with them, insisting that his ears must be as sharp as a hound's, and could he please, please let them know when there was game about. Girls like him, they find him adorable, even good looking, but they giggle about his ears as well.

He has been compared to everything from a mouse to a fox kit.

In Camelot, he is the occasional butt of good-natured jokes from Arthur's knights. Arthur has been known to cuff his ears, although oh so gently, making the blow much more like a caress. Gwen smiles and says that his ears are "the cutest things ever." Uther probably thinks they have something to do with his mental affliction.

Arthur glances at his auditory equipment with a kind of friendly amusement. "At least you're not deaf as well as dumb."

Merlin knows that most people think sorcerers can hear mysterious things in the earth, the wind, and the fire, not to mention water, and that the elements can "speak" to them as they cannot speak to ordinary men. As far as he can tell, this is pure rubbish, the stuff of old wives' tales. The earth doesn't speak to him. Normally, his hearing is quite...normal. But if he extends himself, if he calls upon his magic, it becomes sharper, so that he can hear the rustle of insects crawling through the grass, or footsteps on the damp moss of the forest floor. He remembers the time he and Arthur's men came to a fork in the road while searching for Morgana; that he was able to hear something from the Druids' camp (in spite of the fact that Arthur was yelling at him), half an hour or so on horseback from where they stood, enabling him to select the proper path.

The wind doesn't "speak" to Merlin either, and he finds the idea ridiculous. If he concentrates hard enough, though, he can hear distant voices, floating like an echo on that very same wind. Not otherworldly voices, not magic voices, but the voices of the townspeople less than half a mile away, voices of the servants downstairs, voices of the courtiers in the Great Hall. Nothing too clear or specific, because he doesn't want to overhear them, doesn't want to eavesdrop. If he put his mind to it...perhaps he could. But he has no desire to; there is no need to do it, and he won't.

He _does_ hear a faint pop! behind him, in the massive fireplace, as the embers burn down to nothing. The sound reminds him of the crackle of flames, the final night of the Great Dragon's attack on Camelot. The horrible roar of the fire as the dragon Kilgharrah descended upon the little circle of Arthur and his knights in the dark clearing beyond the castle. His moment of terror when the dragon knocked the prince to the ground, the relief that seized him when Arthur awoke and squinted up at him, perplexed. Hours later, in Arthur's chamber, a gentler fire burning in the hearth, he had eased off the armor, sponged away the soot, applied salve to the burns, and then prepared to leave the prince to his rest. He had fully intended to stagger back to his own little room and sleep, or perhaps bury his face in his pillow and weep for his dead father, but Arthur would not let him go. As exhausted as he should have been, the prince was wide awake and filled with nervous energy, drunk with exhileration, excited by victory. So Merlin (who really _had not_ been in the mood) had stayed and let Arthur do what he wanted to do. When they were done, Arthur had fallen asleep immediately and Merlin, feeling a great wave of tenderness and protectiveness come over him at the sight, had remained awake a little longer, listening to the snapping sound of flames in the hearth and the the slow, even breathing of his companion.

Merlin suspects himself of being a bit too...is _besotted_ the right word? Or is it simply that he is in love? All Arthur has to do is whisper, "Stay with me, _Mer_lin," and he will stay, come hell or high water.

Another pop! in the fireplace brings him back to the present. It is weeks since the dragon left. He has been leaning out of the window, watching and listening for the first signs of dawn. Close by, in the canopied bed, he can hear the sound he loves best in the world, the sound of his name being mumbled by a sleeping, golden-haired youth not much older than himself.

"Merlin," Arthur says in his sleep, so Merlin walks the few paces to the bed and crawls back in, careful not to wake him, and closes his eyes. He lies still, but Arthur stirs, and then, still half-asleep, reaches out his arms and gathers Merlin into them, pressing his nose into Merlin's neck, mumbling something unintelligible. When he says it again, it sounds like "My Merlin. _Mine_." Possessive prat. It may be too early for dawn, the prince may be barely awake, but Merlin can tell that he wants Merlin to tell him he loves him, and that he wants to make love..._again_.

So he does. And so they do.

* * *

Next chapter--**Touch: Silk (Arthur)**


	7. Touch: Silk

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

**Touch: Silk (Arthur)**

_Rough homespun hides a skin that's silk to the touch_. _And exactly when did Merlin become so...insatiable?_

Because Arthur was a prince, his garments were cut and sewn from the finest fabrics available to Camelot. Several times a year his father welcomed cloth merchants to the court, and from their wares the royal seamstresses and tailors selected the cottons, the velvets, the silks, silk satins, and brocades from which they made the prince's clothing. There were certain items of which he was particularly fond, so when they wore out, or were damaged, the tailors replicated them. His crimson jacket. His loose-fitting shirts. After all they suited him, and, to be perfectly honest, Arthur was rather vain about his good looks. And for all his swaggering masculinity, he had a strong tactile sense and enjoyed the caress of smooth, tightly woven fabric against his skin. Then there was the fine leather that was used to make his riding boots, his winter boots, his indoor boots, his dress boots.

"If I ever see another bloody rat gnawing away at my boots..." Arthur once said warningly to Merlin, "I'll...I'll..."

"You'll what, sire?" Merlin asked innocently, but with one eyebrow quirked upwards. Arthur hurled the damaged boots at him, but Merlin ducked and the boots went out the window.

"Hoy there!" came an indignant cry from below.

"Oh God," muttered Arthur in agonized tones, "That was _Gaius_!"

Merlin was already bent over with laughter.

"Shut up!" groaned the prince, trying to suppress his own. "Or I'll make you wear The Hat for a month."

(He knew very well that Merlin hated The Hat, but he himself liked to see Merlin wear it. It looked a bit absurd, of course, and made him laugh as hard as Merlin was laughing now, but the sight was also rather endearing. With the cascade of feathers curling down around his narrow face, and the resigned but disgruntled expression he assumed when he had to wear it, Merlin looked like a startled ferret-only prettier-or a snowy-white ermine standing upright and dressed in red.)

Merlin stifled his laughter. "_I _didn't throw those boots," he murmured. "You're just trying to give me a hard time."

"Of course I'm giving you a hard time, you idiot," the prince retorted. "And it's doing you a world of good."

The crimson jacket was one of Arthur's favorite articles of clothing; he wore it constantly so it was constantly wearing out. Every three to six months the court tailors had to stitch him up a new one. It was becoming to his fair coloring, it went handsomely with most of his shirts, and Arthur liked the texture. He could tell that Merlin liked it as well; he had caught him running his sensitive fingers over the fabric of the sleeve, a little smile on his lips and a dreamy look in his eyes.

"Want to try that on, do you?" he asked in a manner that was only faintly mocking.

"No," Merlin replied, patting the sleeve regretfully. "Don't panic, I wasn't about to muck up your precious jacket."

"Prat," he added thoughtfully, a moment later.

It never really occurred to Arthur to have a nice suit of clothing made for Merlin. When Uther criticized his servant's drab appearance he simply shrugged his shoulders because as far as he was concerned, Merlin, with that creamy skin, black hair, and eyes whose color changed from blue-grey slate to azure sky to midnight blue, depending on the weather and the time of day, was anything but drab.

What Arthur especially liked was to be able to slip his hands under the roughness of Merlin's coarse linen shirt and feel the fine-grained, silky skin underneath. At night, without the shirt, that skin beneath his fingers was like pale satin in the candlelight. It was a delight just to touch him, and he loved the way Merlin closed his eyes and leaned into his touch, like a cat.

(During the day, he occasionally ruffled Merlin's hair in passing, when he wasn't expecting it, something Merlin did not particularly appreciate. That was as much for the fun of making a disorderly mop of that bowl haircut as it was to feel the soft, supple strands between his fingers. At the same time, he could surreptitiously admire their raven darkness against the white nape of Merlin's neck.)

For a month or two after they began sleeping together (when the opportunity presented itself, which was not very often), Arthur had worried about Merlin's motivation. Was he doing it out of a sense of duty? Was he yielding his body, that wonderfully touchable skin, only because he knew that was what the prince wanted? He seemed ardent enough; he returned Arthur's kisses and embraces, he offered no protest if Arthur, in his enthusiasm, became a little too energetic. But did he really want this, or was he simply submitting out of his love for Arthur Pendragon?

The prince had never been with a man before Merlin. And Merlin had, well, never really been with anybody. The mechanics of the thing presented no difficulties to Arthur, who was fairly well versed in what to do in intimate situations. What he hadn't been prepared for was the extremity of pleasure he felt the very first time he had managed to maneuver them into his bed. It wasn't something he had planned in advance, and it had taken Merlin by surprise. But Merlin had been acquiescent..hadn't he? Hot and trembling, eyes closed, responsive, breath warm and sweet against Arthur's throat. He had been the picture of willingness...hadn't he?

Arthur was aware that he had made a habit of bullying Merlin from the day the boy first entered his service, but in this aspect of their life-their lovemaking-he had no intention or desire to bully him at all. Non-consensual intimacy had never appealed to him in the past, and it didn't appeal to him now. It took a little while for him to figure out that the gently tentative quality of Merlin's early response to him was due to his lack of experience. He continued to worry, although to a lesser degree-and after several months had passed, it became quite obvious that Merlin wanted IT just as much as Arthur did.

The prince couldn't quite put his finger on the moment when Merlin was transformed from a willing participant into an eager, passionate, highly active partner. But the transformation had occurred, and there was no going back-not that Arthur wanted to go back. Now when he seized Merlin in his arms, Merlin grasped him with the same fervor, kissed him just as deeply and ferociously, stroked him with a sensitive yet burning touch that astonished him. And for all that he looked so fragile, Merlin was wiry and surprisingly strong. Generally accustomed to being the more dominant and aggressive of the two of them in bed, Arthur found that he had no objection to the occasional role switch, another new aspect of their physical connection. From the beginning Arthur had felt that he could not get enough of Merlin, and now it seemed that Merlin could not get enough of him either. The intensity of their passion shook him to the innermost fibre of his being, but also touched his emotions and his heart-not that he would ever show it. At more or less the same height, they fit together perfectly, and at times it was hard for them to tell where Arthur's skin ended and Merlin's began.

(Arthur didn't want to call it ordinary lust, because there was no question that it was far more complicated than that. The emotions behind it were pure. The physical pleasure went far beyond the satisfaction of simple bodily urges.)

Then daylight would come, and Merlin would be once again the frequently awkward, companionable yet contradictory servant that he had always been.

"You're insatiable, Merlin," Arthur said almost chidingly one evening, expecting Merlin to laugh. But Merlin only stared back at him solemnly before the corners of his eyes crinkled and his lips curved in the most guileless and innocent of smiles. Arthur was nonplussed, but only briefly, for seconds later Merlin tackled him and they toppled over onto the bed.

"I've created a monster," Arthur gasped out, but he was secretly thrilled.

The next morning Merlin was humming as he helped Arthur into a new winter tunic, a heavy brocade lined with a silk satin of the same color. The prince closed his eyes as the smooth, slippery fabric slid against his chest like water, like a soft breeze, like the touch of Merlin's skin. His eyes flew open and he sought Merlin's gaze, but the young man's own eyes were lowered respectfully, his expression was calm and unreadable, his breathing steady, and his mouth set in a small, secret smile.

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Next chapter-**Sight: The Golden Circlet (Uther**)


	8. Sight: The Golden Circlet

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

**Sight: The Golden Circlet (Uther)**

_My son is heir to the throne. The crown prince of Camelot. Someday he must marry and produce an heir._

It was almost impossible for Uther Pendragon to look at his son, Arthur, these days and not think about his late wife, Igraine. And he was watching him so intently.

Arthur had always had good looks on his side. He had been an enchantingly beautiful and stalwart child, a handsome and athletic youth, was now a stunning and physically imposing young man. The blond fairness he had inherited from his mother complimented his warrior's build. Uther had watched over his son's growing military prowess and had witnessed, but not interfered with, his somewhat arrogant demeanor, because he could tell that the boy was also caring and compassionate when it came to the people of Camelot. In any event, he considered it necessary for a ruler to retain an element of arrogance and aloofness. It discouraged others from trying to take advantage. In any way.

Igraine had been sweet, gentle, kind, loving, but with a core of steel in her devotion to her husband, kingdom, closest friends. She would have been the most devoted, caring, and tender of mothers. Uther could remember how he had had to fight to prevent his own love for her, his utter devotion, his _besottedness_, even, from showing in his demeanor when he appeared with her publicly, at state occasions, in front of other members of his court. He had tightened his lips, hardened his face into an impersonal mask, but he realized that his affection must have shown in his eyes, because she would always raise her own to his and smile.

He remembered looking in a mirror, once, and seeing that this was true. In spite of the glacial impassiveness of his facial features, the expression of fondness, the softness, in his eyes was unmistakeable.

And lately, he had seen that very look in the eyes of his son.

The question was: for whom was he harboring this affection? Who had, to use a hackneyed phrase, captured the heart of Prince Arthur of Camelot?

Less than two years ago Uther had set a golden circlet on his son's head, naming him crown prince and official heir to the throne. Perhaps it was time that the boy was wed.

Since Arthur's childhood, many at court had hoped for an alliance between Uther's son and his beautiful ward, Morgana, daughter of one of his dearest friends and closest allies. The two had lived together, almost as brother and sister, since the death of Gorlois, her father, and the castle had echoed to the sounds of their pranks and their battles. Their loyalty to each other had vied with their intense competitiveness; everyone knew that Arthur would have died to protect the girl, yet at the same time they were prone to intense arguments, disagreements, and conflicts that combined a kind of inborn combativeness with their "sibling" rivalry. By the time Arthur reached his twentieth birthday, even the most ardent supporters of the match had to face the fact that the prince and Morgana were unlikely to join hands in matrimony.

My lord of Glastonbury _had_ dared to mention the subject, once, and his words had met with an appalled silence from both parties.

"You're joking," Arthur had said, finally.

"A nunnery would be preferable," snapped Uther's ward.

"I think Father should marry her to Cenred," Arthur retorted. "He's said to be handy with the bullwhip."

(Uther had his own reasons for opposing a marriage between his son and the Lady Morgana. But he kept his feelings of guilt and fierce protectiveness towards the girl to himself. Morgana's mother…well, that had been a moment of weakness on his part. There were times, usually in the dead of night, when he wondered whether the spirits of Gorlois and Igraine knew, and if they would ever forgive him.)

There had been a number of recent instances of boyish infatuation on the part of Arthur for good-looking female guests. Uther had eyed these damsels with skepticism and suspicion. A young woman named Sophia, who vanished, fortunately, before Arthur could do much about her. Then there was the Lady Vivian, lovely daughter of the hot-tempered King Olaf, not a man to whom Uther wished to be bound in marriage kinship. She had become veritably obsessed with Camelot's crown prince, and he with her; their mutual affection flared up and then rapidly faded away, at least on Arthur's part. It was only to be hoped that the girl had gotten over her disappointment.

Then who...who?

There were many comely women at the court of Camelot: noble ladies, the wives, daughters, and sisters of barons, earls, and other members of the minor nobility. One or two were well-born enough to consider as possible brides for the prince; others, of slightly lower rank, were doubtless angling for Arthur in the hopes of social advancement.

It was understood that young men of good family often amused themselves with girls from the peasant class, servant girls, girls who could have no claim on them, unless (God forbid) they produced a child. Uther trusted that Arthur had enough common sense to stay away from that sort of trap. He didn't appear to have entered into liaisons with any of the servants, although...the king wasn't so blind that he couldn't see the friendly relations that existed between the prince and Morgana's pretty maidservant. That girl whose father...well, Uther had no wish to think about that, now. Arthur liked her, yes, found her appealing, certainly, but love?

The king's musings on the subject were interrupted by an abysmally loud crash. That incompetent young manservant of Arthur's had tripped over his own feet again, or someone else's, and was just now picking himself up off the floor with a sheepish grin, wiping his hands on the front of his simple reddish-brown cotte.

Incompetent and clumsy, yes, but Uther supposed that he had to be grateful to him. The boy had saved Arthur's life on more than one occasion, and had displayed a remarkable devotion to him. The two were always riding out together, or walking together, or watching arrivals and departures from the battlements high above the courtyard. Arthur had even had the patience to teach the lad the rudiments of swordplay, although why he bothered, when young Merlin appeared to be possessed of two left feet, was beyond Uther's understanding.

Uther's still-keen vision focused on two nearby serving girls from the palace laundry, who were eyeing the boy and giggling a little. They were smiling and trying to arrange themselves into alluring poses against the carved stone columns framing the portal. The boy grinned affably as he went past them, and their eyes followed him down the hall.

Uther mentally rolled his eyes, but he realized that the girls' interest in Arthur's manservant was not unwarranted. Any connection with him would bring them closer to the actual workings of the court, perhaps lift them from the laundry into service with some noblewoman in need of a maid. And, well, for all his awkwardness the boy was not unattractive, in spite of a physique that verged on spindly, and a preposterous pair of ears. Blue eyes and a milky skin, set off by black hair, full lips, and high cheekbones that any woman might envy. Was "fawnlike" an appropriate word for a young man? It seemed to fit him. If Merlin had been a girl, and Uther were a bit younger, he wouldn't have been averse to dallying with a charming creature blessed with similar features. He remembered the touch of the boy's fingers as he helped to adjust Uther's hauberk, the day the king had fought the fearsome, undead Dark Knight and had come away victorious. Yes, hmmm, if the lad had only been a maiden...rather than a pretty youth...

Shaking his head a little to clear it and pushing aside his disturbingly smutty thoughts - what in God's name was he doing, imagining such things about his son's gawky and perhaps mentally afflicted servant - the king of Camelot went off to his dinner, reminding himself to watch Arthur carefully throughout the meal. Perhaps tonight's feast would enable him to determine the identity of the fair unknown, the lady who had brought that look into the prince's eyes, a look he still associated with his own love for his long-dead queen.

And when sleep claimed him that night, wasn't it fortunate that he wasn't gifted with Second Sight? Wasn't it a blessing that he could not see his son and heir in his bed, tangled and entwined with that lithe and pale young servant boy, whose face in the dimness of the chamber was a white blur beneath his disheveled cap of midnight hair. Whose slender, almost delicate fingers were clasped in Arthur's broader, stronger hands. Whose peony mouth (what silly metaphors poets used!) was crushed beneath the prince's. Whose half-closed blue eyes met the intensity of Arthur's gaze and that look, that very look that Uther had once worn, the almost selfless longing of which Uther would never completely understand.


	9. Taste II: A Flagon of Ale

Note: Chapter Eight (**Sight: The Golden Circlet**) of this fic has been altered, with changes and additions that are in sync with the revelations of Season 3 of **_Merlin_****.**

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**CHAPTER NINE**

**Taste: A Flagon of Ale (Gwaine)**

_The nobility? Bugger the lot. Arrogant bastards. Can't fight worth a damn, most of 'em. You there, another flagon of ale!_

It wasn't just the matter of his heritage. He didn't want to be a knight, even though it would have been fairly easy to provide proof of his ancestry. His father had been a knight, born and bred to the sword and the saddle. Gwaine himself had learnt to handle a sword for defense almost before he was schooled in how to use a quill for writing.

It was the noble class that turned his stomach. Bloody arrogant barons, counts, dukes, princes, and kings, not to mention the knights. Their inability to see life as it was for the vast majority of their subjects. The harsh punishments meted out for the slightest offense, or whatever a nobleman might assume was an offense. Sack the bloody lot. Make them earn their living off the land for a change. Let them see what it was like to be treated like dirt, trampled down _into the dirt_ by some strutting fool in chain mail and a hauberk. God's Teeth! Gwaine had sworn to keep his distance from courts and courtiers, but damn it to bloody hell if he didn't wake up one day, bruised, bloodied, and bandaged, in the castle of Camelot, with an elderly, silver-haired gent looking down at him and trying to tip some nasty-tasting potion down his throat.

Ah well, chalk it up to experience. The food wasn't bad, the wine and ale were better, and it had been a long time since he had seen so many pretty women! Clean, well-dressed women with charming manners and perfumed hair. It was a pleasure just to look at them! The men weren't bad either, Gwaine acknowledged to himself. As handsomely dressed and well-washed as the ladies. Gwaine wouldn't have been averse to rolling about in the hayloft with a representative from either group. Especially after he ran into Guinevere. God's Teeth! Lovely little morsel, she was. Turned him down once, but whilst there is breath there is hope. Told him she was too busy for courting, had to see to something in the kitchens. He would have cooked up something nice and tasty for her, he would, juicy and hot, and generously proportioned as well. (At least so the serving girls at that tavern in Mercia always told him.) He had caught sight of the lady she was servant to, from a distance. She was a fine piece, as beautiful and elegantly dressed as any saint's statue. 'Course she looked a bit haughty, that one, and he doubted he'd ever get particularly far with her. It would take more than a flagon of ale, or wine, or mead, or whatever it was that noblewomen drank nowadays, to get her between the sheets.

He had already met the crown prince and Merlin, his servant, and didn't think he would kick either of them out of his bed either. The prince was certainly pretty, for a bloke, was fit, and had spoken to him with courtesy. Merlin, well, he was a bit skinny, and where he had got those ears was anybody's guess, but he had a nice skin, smooth as cream it looked, and dark-lashed blue eyes as tempting as any girl's. But it was all their fault he had landed in this mess to begin with. And now, after saving the prince's life for the second time, icing those two lowdown bastards magically disguised as old friends of the royal family, he was banished, and would have to leave Camelot without so much as a tumble from anybody, and nothing to take away with him but a skin of wine, a packet of food from the old, silver-haired gent, and the prince's thanks. Milord High-and-Mighty King Uther was just another of those cold-blooded, ramrod-up-the-arse, arrogant pigs who couldn't see past a pedigree, or a lack of one.

So it would be back to the tavern for him, as soon as he was over the border and into Cenred's kingdom. Not that he thought better of Cenred than any of the other kings; nasty piece of goods, he was, from what Gwaine had heard. But a tavern was a tavern, and where there was wine - and plenty of it, not to mention ale - there would be willing wenches enough. No more royal courts for him, he was well out of them! 'Course, young Merlin had said that someday...someday Uther would be gone and Arthur would be king. And then, maybe then, a solid fellow like himself, with a good sword arm, a good sword, and a good, erm, well, might be welcome in Camelot. He'd bide his time 'til then. Pity his stay there had been so short that he hadn't had the chance for another try at Guinevere. Sugar and spice, that's what she'd taste like. Cinnamon and honey. He could fancy curling up with a sweet little tidbit like her. Or even (if he could get them drunk enough) with that blondie prince and his blue-eyed servant. Decent blokes, both of them. Did they look as nice when they were naked? Yeah, he could really fancy a threesome with them, not that it was ever likely to happen. God's Nightgown! where had he put that bloody map? Ah well, he knew of a tavern a half day's ride away, and he supposed one tavern was just as good as another.


	10. Taste III: The Cup of Life

**CHAPTER TEN**

**Taste, Part III: The Cup of Life (Sir Leon)**

_Does_ _life tastes sweeter when it's your second chance at it?_

He didn't really remember much from that night the Druids brought him back to life. Which no one could blame him for, as he was at least half dead at the time. One thing he did recall, though, was the taste of the water from the shining goblet they called the Cup of Life: cool and light, yet somehow sweet with the sweetness of spring, of rebirth, of the season's first fruits, of one's first kiss. For whatever reason, since that strange, magical revival, everything he ate or drank had a mysterious savor – the wine crisper and more intoxicating, the bread richer tasting and somehow heartier.

There was a bitter taste in his mouth, though, when he was dragged before Morgana, queen and usurper. Why, he asked himself, astonished, was she doing this? Uther's cherished ward, loved by the king beyond anybody in the kingdom, with the possible exception of his son. Once so warm-hearted towards those below her station, kind to servants, generous to the townspeople. Caring. So beautiful, eminently desirable; he himself had always admired her, even harbored a secret, um, passion for her. Many nights, alone on his narrow pallet, he had even fantasized…his imagination running wild, his hand supplying added stimulus. He, the most disciplined of the prince's knights. It was…oh well, it was better not to think about it.

This cold woman, seated on Uther's throne, demanding the allegiance of Camelot's knights, was a stranger to him. She had thrown the king into the dungeon, sent a party of that witch Morgause's soldiers to the forest to hunt Prince Arthur down, like a stag. Why so much hatred? Because Uther had never told her he was her father? (It had come as a shock to Leon, too, but royal bastards were hardly a rarity in most kingdoms of Albion.) Because of the many executions of people gifted (or cursed) with magic? Everybody knew that Uther was almost fanatical when it came to his persecution of those unfortunate souls, and in his heart of hearts Leon believed that it blinded him to reason. But he was the king's man, and he stood by him, even though he felt him to be wrong about such things. He knew that Arthur, when he took the throne, would be fair in his judgment of accused sorcerers. He had been raised to fear magic, but this fear would not make him unreasonable or cruel, as it had his father. As for Leon himself, he had become less wary of sorcery since his rescue by the Druids, who (even knowing him for a knight of Camelot) had treated him with kindness and saved him from the grave.

Morgana had ordered him taken away, the salt taste of his own blood on his lips.

His imprisonment had tasted of ashes, and so the bread Guinevere had brought to him in his cell had seemed miraculously delicious, deprived as he had been of food. How sweet she was, as sweet as the honey she had surreptitiously spread on the rough slices. They had grown up together, so to speak, her mother having been a servant in his father's household. He remembered the time in his childhood, when his father had whipped him for disobedience, and little Gwen had come across him afterwards in the garden, and had put her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek. It was easy to understand why the prince was fond of her, if rumors were to be believed.

Then they were running through the forest, and he was _dressed in a woman's gown_, for pity's sake, and it was _so bloody embarrassing_ that he didn't know what to think. He could almost _taste_ the embarrassment, and was relieved beyond measure when they stopped so he could change his clothing. It was a relief, too, to find that Arthur was safe and well, in hiding with Gaius, his servant, Merlin, and that irrepressible fellow Gwaine. When they were joined by Lancelot – a man whose fighting skills Leon could honestly appreciate – his stalwart-looking friend Percival, and Gwen's brother, Elian, the meager meal they shared in the old, deserted fortress tasted of _hope_.

Then Arthur knighted Lancelot, Gwaine, and Elian. (Not Merlin, though. No surprise there. The lad was loyal to the core, and clever, in spite of his lowly station, but not particularly stellar when it came to handling a sword, or any other kind of weapon for that matter.)

Leon had never admired anybody the way he admired his golden-haired prince, and his decision to make knights of those three young men – whether Uther would approve of it or not (and he probably wouldn't) – made him look up to Arthur all the more. Gaius was smiling approvingly as well, Gwen was glowing, and young Merlin was looking at the prince with wide, shining eyes.

The next day they prepared for battle with grim haste. Leon finished arming himself before the new knights were more than halfway into their chain mail, and went to get his orders from Arthur. It took a while to find him – the old fortress was dark, the arrangement of chambers and hallways unfamiliar – but he heard Arthur's voice, with that unmistakable ring of command, and followed the sound.

The prince was standing in a window embrasure in a dimly lit hall, his fair head gilded by the single shaft of sunlight, and Merlin was fastening his hauberk, then handing him his gauntlets. Before he put them on, Arthur spoke, too quietly for Leon to make out the words, and put one hand on Merlin's hollow cheek. The young man raised his eyes, solemnly, and they leaned forward and kissed.

_Oh!_

It wasn't exactly a passionate kiss – this hardly being the time and place for such things – but there was a sweetness and tenderness to their embrace that Leon could sense even from his discreet distance. Arthur put his other hand into Merlin's dark hair and the boy (no, one really couldn't call him a boy any longer) murmured against his mouth and slid his own arms round Arthur's mail-clad waist. Leon backed away silently, thanking whatever gods there were that he hadn't been seen, and not knowing whether to be shocked, or horrified, or glad, to see that the prince had a love of such depth in his life.

And when it was all over, the battle for Camelot, the seemingly immortal enemy soldiers vanquished, Morgause mysteriously destroyed (the gods only knew how), and the taste of victory and mead in his mouth, Leon had seen the prince and Merlin sitting, tired but smiling, on the steps below the castle's main portal. There was the ease and camaraderie that he had always sensed between the two, but Leon knew, now…well, who was he to judge them? In this embattled world, any kind of affection was good. He would be happy for them. They deserved whatever happiness they could get.

Somebody (Lancelot) put another goblet of mead into his hand, and he drank a toast to their triumph over evil. His mouth formed to words, "To Camelot!" along with everyone else, but he was really toasting his own joy in living, their escape from the fate their enemies had planned for them, and the hidden feelings between Arthur and his young servant. And it seemed to him, as he drank, that the honey wine had never tasted richer, sweeter, or more envigorating.


End file.
